


the driftwood and the rift

by GraeWrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt is bad at feelings but he is trying and really that's the first step, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier asks Geralt to kill him but it's because he doesn't want to hurt Geralt, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier's really been through it y'all im so sorry, M/M, Magic, a little bit of Geralt whump too, also, but kind of a play on Feral Jaskier, but made complicated by this whole mind-control deal, in which everyone feels lots of guilt but for different reasons, maybe kind of a fix-it fic??, mind-control, post Mountain Break-Up Scene, they patch each other up, they're going to talk about things I promise, title from TAD lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraeWrites/pseuds/GraeWrites
Summary: It's been months since the mountain, and Geralt hasn't spoken to or seen Jaskier since. He certainly hadn't expected to run into the bard like this--fending him off in the woods, trying desperately to help him break out of the spell that has him slashing at Geralt's throat before one of them ends up dead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 921





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Witcher fandom! Y'all who write Geraskier fics are keeping me sane during this global crisis and it seemed only right that I at least attempt a humble offer of my first venture into writing Witcher in return. Much love to y'all <3 Also, you can find me on tumblr at when-a-humble-bard. ^u^

“Jaskier.”

There’s a mist settling into the forest around them, obscuring the moonlight that tries to peek through the thick canopy above them. Drops of moisture cling to Geralt’s armor and his forehead like a sheen of sweat. He stares, a part of him doubting his own eyes.

Of all the people—all the _creatures_ —he expected to run into four miles outside of the village he’d stopped at for the night, the human bard hadn’t been one of them. Geralt had heard rumors of a werewolf in the woods, and a generous payment promised to him was all the persuasion Geralt needed to swiftly deal with the situation. He’d finished his mediocre meal and set out that same night.

Geralt had been trying to pick up the trail from the last seen location given to him: at the fork in the path four miles outside the village. But he hadn’t seen evidence of a werewolf. No tracks. No scent. No _sound_.

Except… two heartbeats. One of them normal in its beat. Eased. Unafraid. The other was unnaturally slow. Not _Witcher_ slow, but slower than was normal for a heartbeat for most living creatures. And as Geralt reached for his sword, he saw two humanoid figures emerging from the mist several feet ahead of him.

One of them just so happened to be the bard he hadn’t seen in months. Not since the mountaintop.

Geralt freezes.

He doesn’t know what he expects from Jaskier. He’d thought about it—of _course_ he’d thought about it, every day for _months_ —but that didn’t mean that he’d known for sure. He’d spent most of his idle hours considering all the _vicious_ and yet _completely fair_ things Jaskier could and should yell at him if he ever saw him again. Geralt expected anger. Rejection.

But not for Jaskier to just… stand there.

A second later, Geralt realizes that the bard smells… _different_. His usual cedar and rose and honeysuckle has been replaced by something sharp. Metallic. Copper—a realization that makes Geralt’s chest twist—but something else too.

Geralt takes a step towards him, a twig snapping under his boot.

“Ah, ah, ah,” says the figure Jaskier had arrived with. She was taller than Jaskier, long robes with a hood pulled over her head that obscures her features in a dark shadow. She reaches over and places a hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck. The move makes Geralt tighten his jaw.

Jaskier twitches. Then stills.

Geralt takes another step forward. A gust of wind tugs at the witcher’s white hair. “Jaskier,” he repeats. “What are you doing out here?”

The figure beside the bard brushes at Jaskier’s hair, pushing the strings of dark hair—the bard’s hair was longer now—out of his eyes. It’s then that Geralt notices. Jaskier’s normally bright, blue eyes are red. Blood red.

“We were looking for you,” the figure purrs.

Geralt draws his sword. It’s rasp as it pulls out of the sheath seems to echo under the forest canopy. “What did you do?”

The figure doesn’t remove her hood, but Geralt swears he sees a flash of snarling teeth. “I suppose I could be asking you the same thing. You see, when I caught your precious songbird, he was _quite_ intoxicated in Blaviken. Seemed absolutely _certain_ that you would not be coming for him.”

Geralt feels his stomach twist. His grip tightens around the longsword, his gaze flickering between the figure and Jaskier. Still not moving. Still staring at Geralt with those crimson eyes. Geralt doesn’t see any sign of recognition in them.

The figure waits, like she expects Geralt to say something. Then she continues. “Put up quite the fight, though. He lasted nearly three weeks before he screamed for you. You should have been there, Witcher, it was _quite_ the sound.”

Geralt wants to hurl his sword at the figure’s form. The feeling is only heightened when she places her hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck again. Geralt takes another step forward.

The figure either doesn’t notice or takes no stock in the motion. “He’s an unusual creature.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t you agree?” The figure turns their shadowed face back to Geralt. “As much as he seemed absolutely convinced you would not come for him, he was resolute in withholding information about you. Loyal to the end, it seems.”

It’s a subtle motion, but Geralt sees the way the figure squeezes the back of Jaskier’s neck. The way he twitches again.

Geralt’s jaw jumps. “Well, I’m here. Let the bard go.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you misunderstand, Witcher. _I_ am not here to fight you.”

It’s the emphasis that makes Geralt’s brow furrow. He doesn’t reply, ears perked for abnormalities in the forest around him. If he wasn’t going to fight the hooded figure, she must have brought some other monster to take care of the job. But around him, all Geralt can hear is the late-night wind brushing through the leaves, the chirp of crickets, and two heartbeats. Jaskier’s still abnormally slow…

“ _He_ is.”

Geralt frowns. “Who?”

And then he feels something in his chest plummet as Jaskier takes a step forward, drawing two daggers from his belt. His red gaze narrows. Geralt’s own golden one widens slightly in response.

“Jaskier—” Geralt cuts himself off as he deflects the blade that slices through the air between them. “Fuck. Jaskier!”

But there’s no acknowledgment. It’s a blank, flat gaze as the next dagger flies towards him and Geralt parries it away with a quick flick of the longsword in his hands. Jaskier keeps advancing, wrenching a sword— _a rapier, when the hell did Jaskier get a rapier?_ —from its sheath at his hip and Geralt takes a small step back, his brows pulled together.

As Jaskier rushes towards him, Geralt realizes in the split second before their swords cross that the metallic scent to Jaskier that he hadn’t been able to place a moment ago is magic. _A curse_. Geralt’s sharp gaze flickers past Jaskier to the hooded figure, still standing several feet away.

Jaskier’s sword slices against Geralt’s arm, stinging sharply and wrenching Geralt’s focus back to the bard in enough time to parry the second blow.

“Jaskier.”

The bard lunges, and Geralt side-steps the wide arc, his eyes flashing in the dark.

“Release your hold on him,” Geralt demands in a snarl as Jaskier whirls towards him.

“This, _Witcher_ , is restoration of balance. You took my love from me all those years ago in Blavikin. Now you must kill someone _you_ love. Because he will not stop. Not until one of you is dead.”

Geralt can feel the thin, sour taste of desperation clawing up his throat as Jaskier snarls and lunges at him again. Metal flashes in the moonlight, the blades screaming against each other as Jaskier slashes and stabs and Geralt parries, dodges, blocks.

“Damn it, Jaskier,” Geralt says again through gritted teeth. The bard’s name is nearly all Geralt can think to say. He hasn’t said the name aloud in months but he doesn’t know what else he can do to break through to him. He has to _try_ , though. Because killing Jaskier is not an option.

But the bard is relentless like this. The noise he makes in the back of his throat doesn’t sound fully human as he moves to stab forward at Geralt’s chest, barely glancing off the leather armor as the Witcher turns to avoid it. Geralt uses Jaskier’s forward momentum against him, latching onto his wrist and yanking him closer while anchoring the sword-wielding hand between his arm and his chest.

Jaskier stumbles closer to Geralt and even in the dark of night, Geralt swears he sees a swirl of bright blue around Jaskier’s irises. A moment of clarity. Geralt blinks and its gone. But he _saw_ it, he _knows_ he did.

“Jaskier—” Geralt tries, desperate to get it back, but he’s cut off as something sharp sinks into his shoulder. He growls low in his throat and shoves the bard off. The rapier clatters to the forest floor, the sound muffled slightly by the grass and damp earth beneath their feet. Geralt looks to his shoulder to see a blade—slightly smaller than the daggers Jaskier had thrown at him—protruding from his leather. Geralt yanks it out with a grunt.

Jaskier lets out a vicious snarl and charges again, his hands empty of weapons now. He claws at Geralt’s face, but the witcher sees it coming and manages to block the attempt with his arm. He sweeps Jaskier’s feet out from under him, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Geralt grabs for Jaskier’s hands as he thrashes beneath him. “Jaskier!”

His blood red eyes get that swirl of blue again and Geralt freezes. “Geralt—” Jaskier rasps, a spark of fear igniting in the bard so suddenly and intensely that Geralt can _taste_ it. “Geralt, you—you have—”

And then the red in his eyes bleeds over and the recognition is gone—the _scent of fear_ is _gone_ —and Geralt growls low in his throat. Jaskier throws an elbow that connects sharply with Geralt’s jaw. Geralt’s mouth fills with blood.

His mind is racing. Whatever curse he’s under, Jaskier is fighting it. Trying to. Geralt just needs some way to break the bard out of the damn—

Jaskier scrambles out from under the Witcher, grabbing for one of the daggers nearby. It’s the first one that Geralt had knocked away when Jaskier had hurled it at him. Geralt tries to wrench the bard’s arm back but he’s just a fraction too late or too gentle—Jaskier would never forgive him if Geralt broke his fingers—and the bard’s nimble hand closes around the hilt of the knife. He slashes out viciously and Geralt hisses as he feels the steel slice against his cheek as he just barely manages to duck out of the way.

Jaskier goes to slash at Geralt’s chest but the witcher grabs for his wrist and suddenly Jaskier is pressing the blade towards Geralt’s throat and Geralt is doing what he can to keep it away. He grips the blade, grimacing against the way is slices into his hand.

“Jask—”

“Geralt.” The blue is back—sudden and bright—and with it is the scent of wildflowers and _panic_. “ _Please_.” And before Geralt can even process what the bard is doing, he feels Jaskier press the hilt of the blade into Geralt’s palm and turns the knife onto his own throat.

“No.”

“You _have_ to. It’s okay.” The red is starting to cloud over but Jaskier grits his teeth and the blue manages to hold on a moment longer. “I can’t…” He can feel the way the bard is trembling beneath him and he doesn’t know if its with exertion or fear. Geralt curses again, seeing the swirl of red and blue in the bard’s eyes.

A defiant flare of blue. Jaskier gasps with a strangled, choked sound. “ _Geralt_.”

The desperate hitch in Jaskier’s voice wrenches something in Geralt’s chest.

And then he hears it again. The second heartbeat. He’d been so preoccupied with fending off Jaskier and making sure to not hurt him in the process that he’d almost forgotten. The Witcher glances over his shoulder and his ears _ring_ with the fury that floods him. He yanks the knife out of Jaskier’s grip and hurls it as hard as he can.

There’s a choked gasp as it lodges somewhere beneath the hood of the figure and he crumples to the ground. Geralt tears off Jaskier and grabs his sword in the process, rushing towards the figure to be _absolutely sure_. But the figure stays prone, and Geralt hears the second heartbeat get slower and slower. Then it stops.

The world resonates with a sudden stillness. The night breeze brushes through the dark canopy of leaves above them. A small flock of birds beat their wings overhead. Distantly, Geralt can hear bullfrogs calling to each other in the dark. And he can hear another heartbeat, fast and _pounding_ , and shaking, gasping breaths.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt rushes back to him, kneeling beside the bard as he trembles on the forest floor. He’s curled in on himself, his arms obscuring his face. His wheezing, panicked gasps seem to choke in his throat. Geralt reaches a hand out, hesitates, and then gingerly sets it between the bard’s shoulder-blades.

Jaskier flinches. Geralt snaps his hand back like it burned him, ignoring the way his throat constricts. The Witcher focuses instead on taking a deep breath. _Cedar_. _Rose. Honeysuckle. Copper_. He’s bleeding, Geralt realizes as his brow furrows, the sent hitting the Witcher in the back of the throat. The other metallic scent of _magic_ is gone, as far as Geralt can tell, but a part of him needs to see Jaskier’s eyes before the tension in his shoulders will release.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries again, but he’s careful not to touch him. “Look at me.”

There’s a long moment where nothing happens. Geralt watches as something like helplessness claws up his throat as Jaskier shivers and gasps in front of him. And then—with what looks to be herculean effort—Jaskier moves the arm blocking his face and peers up at the Witcher kneeling above him.

Bright blue eyes. Wide and watery and _blue_.

Geralt releases a breath. Jaskier looks pale, even in the dark of night. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

For perhaps the first time ever, Geralt is the one who breaks it. “You’re bleeding.” It’s not a question. Geralt can smell it, and he hates the way it blends with the wildflower scent of his— _the_ bard.

Jaskier averts his gaze. There’s a beat. Then Jaskier unfolds from around himself and uses one wobbling arm to push himself up a bit. Geralt’s hands shadow the movement without touching, wanting to help. Refusing to hurt.

Jaskier groans low in his throat with pain. His blue eyes—Geralt can’t stop noticing the color now—flicker over the Witcher, before they settle squarely on his shoulder. Geralt follows his gaze, glancing down. He’s still bleeding from where Jaskier had lodged the knife into him. Geralt hadn’t thought it possible given how little color the bard had, but he pales even further. His gaze flickers away in the next moment.

“I’ll heal.”

Geralt sees Jaskier swallow. He doesn’t answer, carefully avoiding the Witcher’s gaze. “Where is the nearest town?”

Geralt frowns. “You don’t know?”

“Things are… fuzzy, for the most part.” The bard’s voice is hoarse and hollow.

“Four miles west.”

Jaskier’s breath is almost back to normal now, although his heartbeat is still rather fast. Panicked, Geralt assumes, and figures he can’t really fault the bard for it. Jaskier sits on the forest floor for a moment, and then presses his hands to the floor and struggles to his feet.

“Jaskier—” Geralt says in alarm, standing with him. He sees the shake in Jaskier’s legs and catches him by his arm. “You’re in no condition to walk.”

“What are you talking about, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and the smile he throws the Witcher is thin and brittle. “I’m right as rain.”

“You can barely stay standing.”

“You’re hurt.”

The immediate response catches the Witcher off guard. Geralt stares at Jaskier for a moment. Was _that_ why the bard was being so damn stubborn? Geralt would be fine. Sure, the wound was deep and would scar, but he could already feel the blood flow starting to slow. _Jaskier¸_ on the other hand…

“As are you,” Geralt replies. “We need to get you somewhere else.” Somewhere safe. Warm. Maybe even to a healer. Geralt couldn’t be sure until he got a decent look at Jaskier’s injuries. The hooded figure’s words from earlier echo back through the Witcher’s mind.

_He lasted nearly three weeks before he screamed for you._

Something in Geralt’s stomach rolls uncomfortably.

“You should—” Jaskier cuts himself off when he takes a step and his knee gives out from underneath him. Geralt catches him again, giving him a pointed look.

Jaskier doesn’t look back, but he seems to get the message. “Point taken,” he says dully, his gaze trained on the bloodied knife discarded in the grass a few feet away. “Drop me off at the nearest inn, Geralt.”

 _Like hell I’m just going to drop you off_ , Geralt thinks to himself.

Neither of them says anything on the long, slow trek back to Roach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is finally here! They talk! It just takes 'em a bit to stop dancing around each other.

…

They take the last room at the tavern that’s available. Geralt accepts the key from the innkeeper—who stares at the mess of the two of them, beaten and bloody, with wide eyes—and half-helps, half-carries the bard up the stairs to the last room on the left. Geralt pauses only long enough to ask the barmaid to send up a basin of hot water.

He drops Jaskier onto the singular bed in the corner. He hates the silence. It had been grating in the months since their parting at the mountain top, but now that Jaskier is _here_ … Geralt hates it. Almost as much as he hates the way Jaskier won’t meet his eyes.

Geralt busies himself with getting a low fire going in the hearth and pulling out strips of linen and vials of oil. He can feel Jaskier watching him, his bright blue eyes following his every movement. His initial panic seems to have abated, as much as Geralt can tell from his scent and the beating of the bard’s heart, but there’s something that lingers around him that Geralt can’t quite place. Something that reminds Geralt of burnt grass and smoke.

The Witcher turns to face the bard, opening his mouth to say something when he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. Geralt quietly thanks the young woman that hands the wash basin to him with a hesitant smile. When he turns back, Jaskier is standing. He’s got one hand braced against the headboard.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. The bard’s eyes flicker up. “Sit down.”

Jaskier shakes his head. Some of his hair—it’s longer than Geralt remembers—falls across his eyes in the process. “Your shoulder,” he says. “It needs to be cleaned and we both know your scars heal more evenly if someone else sews them up.”

Geralt sighs. “I don’t care how evenly—”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, just… let…” Jaskier blows out a breath. “Let me do this. Please.”

Geralt knows first-hand just how insistent the bard can be. There was a certain fire that always lit up in those blue eyes of his when he got this way, and Geralt can’t help but feel an odd note of relief at seeing it back. The look always managed to exasperate the Witcher—honestly, Jaskier chose the most trivial things to put his foot down over—but it’s an improvement over the distant, haunted look that had shadowed his expression since the forest. Perhaps that’s why he relents.

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line before he sets the basin on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. Jaskier is quiet again as Geralt shrugs off his armor and sheds the shirt underneath. The silence twists Geralt’s stomach. He is desperate to fill it.

“You were in Blavikin.”

It’s not a question, exactly. The hooded figure had told him as such, after all. The gentle splash of water as Jaskier dips one of the strips of linen into the basin fills the beat of silence that meets the end of the statement.

The bard’s gaze flickers up briefly to meet the Witcher’s golden one. “Yes. After we, ah, last parted, I found myself passing through Blavikin and the people of Blavikin found themselves in need of a bard.”

Geralt watches closely as Jaskier swallows before gingerly pressing the linen to the stab wound, far more gently than necessary, beginning to clean the blood that had dried against Geralt’s skin. The admittance from Jaskier leaves Geralt with more questions than answers. He wants to ask why—of all places Jaskier could have headed—the bard decided to go there. But Geralt doesn’t ask, swallowing the question down.

He thinks he knows the answer, anyway. Despite the bard’s ballads and songs sweeping through the Continent, plenty of contempt directed towards him lingered around. He had no doubt that Blavikin would harbor the worst of it. _Butcher of Blavikin_ wasn’t a name so easily wiped from memories, even if _White Wolf_ had started to worm its way into people’s vocabularies with increasing frequency.

Geralt had not returned to the town since Renfri. He did not plan to ever go back. Geralt looks up as Jaskier continues to clean at the wound in his shoulder. He wonders if perhaps Jaskier knew that. If that’s _exactly_ why the bard decided to go there.

It’s another question that Geralt can’t bring himself to ask.

“I don’t think I’ll go back,” Jaskier says suddenly, studiously avoiding Geralt’s watchful stare. “Can’t say Blavikin really does it for me much anymore.”

“Hmm.” Geralt wants to ask why, but Jaskier presses on.

“Although, I’ll have to go back to retrieve my lute. If it’s even still there. I suppose that’s unlikely, given that it’s been a month, but you never truly know. Perhaps Adelaide rescued it. She’s just as likely to sell it, and that would be quite the travesty. Filavandrel would never forgive me. Although, to be fair, I haven’t performed quite as much as I used to, so perhaps there’s a certain level of irony to be found.”

As he rambles—for which Geralt is oddly grateful to hear, even if Jaskier’s voice is thin and shaky—he finishes cleaning the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, Geralt realizes, and Jaskier turns away from the Witcher and begins preparing what looks like a poultice. Geralt’s gaze still doesn’t waver from the bard. Jaskier’s hands are shaking. He drops one of the vials and it shatters against the dark wood floors.

“ _Fuck_.”

Geralt stands up slowly. “Jaskier.”

“I’ll replace it in the morning, Geralt.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Jaskier is standing frozen by the table next to the bed, dropping his hands beside the poultice and dragging a breath into his lungs as if it takes a certain amount of focus. It’s the first deep breath Geralt has heard the bard take tonight, but he doesn’t miss the hitch nor the slight grimace of pain that passes through Jaskier’s face. Geralt swallows.

“Sit,” he says, and this time, Jaskier doesn’t argue with him.

The bard sinks down onto the side of the bed where Geralt had been sitting a moment ago, his gaze distant as he stares absently across the room. Jaskier blinks, breaking him out of whatever momentary trance he’d been in, and drags his gaze back to Geralt. It settles squarely on the wound in his shoulder. That scent of burnt grass and smoke that lingers around the bard gets stronger.

Geralt sighs, glancing around the room before he finds the spare change of clothes he’d brought in from Roach. He slips the shirt over his head, gritting his teeth as the move tears a bit at the stab wound. He just wants Jaskier to stop staring at it. Especially since the bard looks like he’s about to keel over at any moment.

Geralt busies himself with picking up the shards of glass he can find while he waits for Jaskier to shed his doublet and the shirt underneath. Except by the time Geralt has finished cleaning up the glass as best he can manage, Jaskier hasn’t moved.

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier.” Jaskier blinks up at him expectantly. Geralt arcs an eyebrow, then motions to the bard. “Your shirt.”

“What about it?” From the quick aversion of his gaze, Geralt has the feeling that Jaskier is stalling more than expressing a genuine lack of understanding. Geralt doesn’t respond, crossing his arms over his chest and staring the bard down.

Jaskier lasts all of about ten seconds before he releases a breath and Geralt sees his cheeks flush slightly. “I… may need some help,” he says quietly.

Geralt softens and crosses back to him, sitting beside the bard and helping him ease his blue doublet off his shoulders. The stench of copper grows stronger, and Geralt can see stains of red bleeding onto the off-white shirt he wears beneath. Geralt folds the doublet and sets it aside as he hears Jaskier suck in a deep breath before tugging the hem of his shirt out of his pants and continuing the momentum up and over his head.

Geralt doesn’t miss the tight clench to Jaskier’s jaw at the movement before the bard balls the shirt in his hands. Geralt glances at the bard’s back and freezes.

It’s… a mess. Mottled bruising—some fresh, some old—offers a sickeningly colorful backdrop of greens, yellows, and blues to the slashes that carve through his skin. Some span most of the bard’s back, others are smaller. A few are red, barely scabbed over, while others are most of the way to scarring.

_He lasted nearly three weeks before he screamed for you._

Geralt closes his eyes against the roll in his stomach. “ _Fuck_ , Jaskier.”

“It’s like I always told you,” Jaskier says, and the attempt at levity probably wouldn’t have worked even if Jaskier’s voice didn’t tremble just a little, “ladies love some scars. Though I’m afraid the stories behind mine are, ah… well. Safe to say I probably won’t be composing songs about them.”

Geralt swallows thickly. He doesn’t know where to start, his golden gaze flickering over the far-too-many injuries that splay across the bard’s back, over his shoulders, wrapping around his ribs. Geralt leans forward slightly to inspect the bard’s chest, and Jaskier turns his head away like he’s ashamed. His chest looks to be in just as bad of shape, and the fact that the bruises continue down around the bard’s hips and disappear beneath the waistline of his pants doesn’t escape the Witcher’s notice either.

“What did they want?” Geralt asks in a careful voice, tearing his gaze away from the colorful and painful display of Jaskier’s chest to the bard’s face.

Jaskier’s light blue gaze flickers to Geralt before looking back to the fire in the hearth. “Nothing.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier finally meets his eyes in a brief flair of defiance. Something wavers in Jaskier’s expression before he tears his gaze away. It grows distant as the bard’s voice grows softer. “They didn’t want anything I was willing to give. So what does it matter, _really_ , what they wanted?”

It matters because Geralt didn’t really need Jaskier to tell him what they wanted from him. The hooded figure in the forest had been pretty damn clear. _He was resolute in withholding information about you. Loyal to the end, it would seem_. Plenty of people wanted the Witcher dead—plenty of people want _Witchers_ in general dead. None, as far as Geralt knew, had gone to such lengths to glean any information about him in particular as to do this. He knew his lifestyle was dangerous, and put those who chose to join him in harm’s way, but… that was because he hunted monsters. Not… not _this_. _Fuck._

Nobody deserved this, but Jaskier _least_ of all. Jaskier, who had done nothing but care for him and be the singular most steadfast person present in Geralt’s life. _Loyal to the end, it would seem_. Geralt’s stomach gives another uncomfortable roll, his throat growing tight.

Geralt’s own thoughts trail off as he sees the pained hitch in Jaskier’s breath as he sighs just a touch too deeply.

The Witcher busies himself with kneeling in front of the bard, dipping the unused strips of linen in the wash basin that is now slightly tinged with the red of Geralt’s own blood.

“You should have told them,” Geralt says without looking at him. “Whatever they wanted to know, you should have…” He trails off.

Jaskier releases a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, laced tight with pain and something else that Geralt can’t place. “You really think so little of me? After all these years?”

Geralt’s brow furrows as he wrings out one of the strips. Jaskier looks back at the Witcher, seems to recognize the confusion, and shakes his head a little. “For fuck’s sake, Geralt. You think a little pain is all it would take for me to sell out on you?”

“ _This_ ,” Geralt says between clenched teeth, nodding to Jaskier’s battered form, “is more than just a _little_ , Jaskier.”

And _gods fucking damn it_ , because it’s _his fault_. They didn’t _want_ Jaskier, they wanted _Geralt_ , and had thought that going after the bard would be the fastest way to get to him. It was well known across the Continent that Jaskier was the bard who sung the praises of the White Wolf, tagged along with him on so many adventures. An easy target. But the bard was nothing if not steadfast and loyal—to a _fault_ , it would seem to Geralt—and his will had never been as easily broken as his body. If Geralt had just… been there, then Jaskier wouldn’t be fighting back a pained wince with each inhale of breath he dragged into his lungs. 

Geralt sighs. He lifts the damp cloth towards the gash on Jaskier’s shoulder. One of the fresher ones, by the look of it. That, or the fight in the woods had torn an old wound back open. Geralt’s hand hesitates before making contact, looking to Jaskier for permission.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him, but he offers a subtle nod and swallows. He shuts his eyes, holding his breath as Geralt gingerly dabs at the fresh blood there. Jaskier releases the breath slowly a moment later. Geralt pretends not to notice just how badly it shakes.

There’s a long stretch where neither of them says anything. Geralt pays close attention to Jaskier, giving him a moment to brace each time he begins to tend to a new wound. The Witcher tries not to let his mind wander too far from his job, careful to not touch Jaskier anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. The bard’s fallen silent again, and there are brief moments where Geralt can feel his quiet gaze on him. Any time he goes to return it, Jaskier’s blue eyes flicker back to the fire, crackling in the silence around them.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Jaskier says when Geralt hesitates for the fourth time.

“Hmm.”

“Any of it,” Jaskier adds. “I did pick up a few things from our travels together, you know. I… I can do this myself.”

Geralt lets his hand drop from Jaskier’s ribs, his gold gaze searching. Jaskier won’t meet his eyes. “Do you want to?” he asks, because as much as Geralt wants to feel like cleaning Jaskier’s wounds would at least begin the recompense he owes the bard, Jaskier’s comfort and sense of security take priority.

“I can.”

Geralt frowns. “That’s not what I asked.”

Jaskier is silent again. As much as the Witcher knew the bard could read him, he’d learned how to read the bard over the years in kind. Something was pressing on Jaskier’s mind. He could tell from the unusual silence. The distant gaze. The way that his hands wringed in his shirt—usually, he’d be plucking absently on the strings of his lute, but with the instrument’s absence, Geralt figures that the bard’s hands would remain restless when he was turning something over in his mind.

Still, Jaskier doesn’t give voice to whatever thoughts are evidently flickering through his mind. And as much as Geralt wants to ask him, he can’t bring himself to. He doesn’t want to press. He’d been pressed for information enough over the past month.

The Witcher has cleaned most of the fresh and re-opened wounds on Jaskier’s ribs when the bard finally breaks the silence.

“Geralt.”

“Hmm?”

“In the forest.” Jaskier looks at Geralt kneeling in front of him. There’s a flood of that burnt grass and smoke scent and only now that Geralt is fully looking at him—his eyes wide and pained—can Geralt pair the scent with the emotion. _Guilt_. “Did you know it would work?”

“What would work?”

“Throwing the knife.”

Geralt’s hands still for a moment. “Mages are conduits of chaos,” he says quietly, recalling what Yennefer had told him once. “Destroy the conduit, you break their hold on whomever they’ve enchanted. Usually.”

“Usually,” Jaskier repeats. “So you didn’t know.”

“Hmm.”

“You could have killed me. You _should_ have.” The statement makes Geralt’s eyes flash up to the bard’s again. “Why didn’t you?”

Geralt shakes his head, hating the way the smoke scent starts to radiate off Jaskier so fully that it nearly drowns out the smell of honeysuckle entirely. “You were under a spell.”

“I was a threat.”

“No.” Geralt’s eyes flash. “You were a _victim_. There’s a difference.”

“I wanted to hurt you.” Jaskier looks squarely at Geralt now, his blue eyes bright with pain. “I did. When that spell was winning, I _wanted_ to hurt you, Geralt, and gods on high it _terrified_ me. I mean— _fuck_.” Jaskier drops the shirt in his hands as his voice breaks and buries his fingertips in his hair.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries, ducking a little in an attempt to get the bard to look at him again. Jaskier’s eyes are screwed shut. Geralt purses his lips. “I’ve sustained injuries far more serious than the meager ones you inflicted in the forest. And regardless, that wasn’t reflective of your desires. It was the bloodlust of the spell.”

“But I _felt_ it, Geralt. I…” Jaskier shakes his head. He scrubs a hand across his watering eyes. He offers a thin, shaky, self-deprecating smile. “Add it to the pile of shit I shovel, huh?”

It’s Geralt’s turn to avert his gaze. Jaskier doesn’t mean it as a jab, but it rips open old well-deserved pain in Geralt’s chest. He’d regretted his words on the mountain less than an hour after he’d spoken them. But he hadn’t known how to take the words back in a way that would mean anything. He’d still _said_ them. And Geralt had long ago gotten in the habit of not saying much of anything when he didn’t know what to say. So instead, he’d taken his time going back down the mountain, turning over the thousand ways to make it up to the bard should they ever cross paths again.

Here they are, months later, and Geralt still doesn’t know where to begin.

“I wasn’t fair,” Geralt says, knowing and hating that all he can think to say is a distant echo of what Jaskier had said himself on that mountaintop months ago. “After the dragon. You were right.”

Jaskier’s eyes open, blinking in evident surprise as he glances up at the Witcher. Geralt can feel the gaze on him, searching and confused, but he can’t quite bring himself to meet it. He busies his hands and his attention, instead, by returning to the gash under Jaskier’s collarbone that still looks red and painful.

“I get myself into shit,” Geralt continues quietly, “and the fact that you happen to be there more often than not does not mean you’re the one who…” The Witcher huffs a frustrated breath, fumbling for some semblance of words that won’t fall short of what he means. He dabs gently with the damp linen cloth against the wound and Jaskier’s breath stutters for just a moment.

He tries again. “You’re a loyal friend, Jaskier.”

And fuck if that doesn’t fall short in a million other ways. The extent of Jaskier’s unyielding, relentless loyalty was painted all over the bard’s body as a painful reminder. _Loyal_ felt like such a massive understatement, and _friend_ didn’t fit well in Geralt’s mouth as a descriptor of Jaskier either. It never had.

But Geralt doesn’t know how to bridge the rift between the words he says and the meaning behind them. The words that leave his lips feel like grasping at driftwood while drowning.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters under his breath.

Jaskier’s hand stills Geralt’s over his wound before pulling his hand away and enveloping it in his own. “Geralt?”

The Witcher stops and swallows. “Forgive me. Please.”

And in truth, Geralt doesn’t know what exactly he’s referring to. If it’s the long overdue plea for what he’d said on the mountain or for the pained wince that Jaskier kept trying to mask or for all the other ways that the Witcher continued to fail Jaskier. There are far too many things, too many ways, that Geralt had fallen short. Too many things he needs Jaskier to forgive him for.

“I’ll do better,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Geralt takes a breath, enveloped in the scent of cedar and honeysuckle and rose. The copper scent is mostly gone now, and the Witcher counts it as a small mercy on the aching in his chest.

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier breathes in the space between them, “Of course.”

The ease with which Jaskier says the words is a grace that Geralt does not deserve. He releases a breath as the knot in his chest loosens before swallowing thickly. He feels Jaskier squeeze his hand softly. Geralt pulls back despite the sudden desire to press into the bard’s aura of warmth and wildflowers.

Jaskier is still battered and bruised and in pain. _I’ll do better_. That begins with easing whatever pain of Jaskier’s he can in the moment.

The Witcher clears his throat slightly as if it will ease the tightness of it. Jaskier seems reluctant to release his hold of Geralt’s hand, but he does after a moment. Geralt goes back to cleaning the gash beneath his collarbone. It’s the last of his wounds that necessitate cleaning before he’ll offer a salve that should help with the inflammation. Hopefully, with some pain eased, Jaskier can get a decent night’s sleep. Gods know how long it had been since the bard had been able to do that.

Geralt stands to do just that, turning towards the bag he’d hauled in.

“Where do you plan to go, come morning light?” Jaskier asks suddenly.

Geralt turns back around to look at the bard. “With you,” he says, his brows furrowed. Hadn’t that been obvious?

The Witcher sees the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corner of the bard’s mouth and the lingering knot in Geralt’s chest loosens just a touch more. “To the coast?”

“Hmm.” That did sound… nice, actually. Getting away for a while. It had been a long time since Geralt had been to the coast. He turns back to the bag and rifles through the contents, searching for that salve.

“I’ll need to get my lute first.”

“We can stop on the way.”

“Been too long since I last played,” Jaskier is saying, his voice getting softer and heavier. “Though if we’re going to the coast, I’ll have ample time to work on some sea shanties. Been ages since I’ve sung a sea shanty. Do you know any, Geralt?”

“No.”

“Hm. Shame. I’ll have to teach some to you.”

Geralt huffs a breath. Jaskier would be hard pressed to get Geralt to sing much of anything, but there also wasn’t much that Geralt would refuse Jaskier right now. He turns back to the bard, his brow arched, and finds the bard slumped over in the bed. Fast asleep. The corner of the Witcher’s mouth tugs up into an almost-smile.

He sets the salve that he’d dug out of the bag on the table with a quiet click, easing an arm under Jaskier’s knees and one under his neck. He lifts the bard easily—he’s _far_ lighter than he ought to be—and repositions him more fully onto the bed. He couldn’t have the bard aggravating his injuries further. Jaskier stirs slightly, and Geralt holds his breath before the bard sighs softly and seems to drift back to sleep.

Geralt sets his bedroll on the floor. In the morning, they’d set off for the coast. For now, Geralt drifts off to sleep to the crackling fire in the hearth, the bard’s steady heartbeat, and the faint scent of wildflowers in the air around him.


End file.
